Excerpt: ...part without even a word!" She lay with tear-stained eyes, watching the low shores of Madras fade away, and listened to the sleeping girl's murmur: "Harry! Harry! I owe you my life!" Even the maid mourned a dashing Sergeant-Major! With a desperate courage, trying to fan the spark of love, which had slowly crept into her lonely heart, Justine Delande had timidly bribed a stewardess, going on shore for some last commissions, to telegraph to the secret address at Allahabad the words: "Madras steamer Coomassie ...
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Excerpt: ...part without even a word!" She lay with tear-stained eyes, watching the low shores of Madras fade away, and listened to the sleeping girl's murmur: "Harry! Harry! I owe you my life!" Even the maid mourned a dashing Sergeant-Major! With a desperate courage, trying to fan the spark of love, which had slowly crept into her lonely heart, Justine Delande had timidly bribed a stewardess, going on shore for some last commissions, to telegraph to the secret address at Allahabad the words: "Madras steamer Coomassie Castle, Brindisi." The signature, "Your Justine," brought a grim smile to Alan Hawke's face, the next night, when on the arrival of General Abercromby, he stationed Hugh Johnstone's secret spies on duty with the redoubtable Calcutta warrior. "By God! She is both game and true!" cried Hawke. "Here is my fortune, and Justine shall share my spoils yet!" As the special train rolled out into the starlit night the old nabob, in a paroxysm of delight, read in the marble house words telegraphed by the happy-hearted Douglas Fraser, now taking up his endless deck tramp on the Brindisi bound steamer. The young Scotsman, ignorant of all intrigue, was relieved to know that he had laid the firm foundation of his future fortunes. His last shore duty was done when he had wired to his urgent relative in Delhi the glad tidings: "All right. Coomassie Castle. Orders strictly obeyed." Even the astute Alan Hawke failed, after many days of futile private research, to trace the route of the train which had pulled out of Delhi in the dead of night, beat the record to Allahabad, and then, turning off apparently for Bombay, had curved, on a loop, to the Madras line, and surpassed all speed records on the Indian Peninsula. Even when he telegraphed to Ram Lal's friends at Madras, he could obtain no definite trace, the railway officials were silent, and the travelers had sought no hotel in Madras. Hugh Johnstone's well applied money had smothered all inquiry. Even the driver...
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